


Stuck

by coveredbyroses



Series: Birthday Drabbles 2018 [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Closet Sex, F/M, Smut, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 10:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16852117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: You. Dean. Cursed painting. Closet.





	Stuck

“Found it!” Dean calls from somewhere at the back of the house, bedroom maybe?

“Thank god,” you breathe, rounding the kitchen’s arched entrance.

The case had been one involving a cursed object, a painting created with the DNA of its creator; a serial killer.

It’s a hauntingly gorgeous piece of art; a lake scene set at night, rippling water splashed with a hint of red—a reflection of the crimson moon floating in the inky sky above.

The red isn’t paint.

During your research, you’d discovered two previous owners of the piece; both found dead, killed during a full moon.

You’d tracked down the recent buyer; a businessman in South Dakota. He’s currently on a business trip, so you and Dean have broken into his simple red bricked one-story.

Dean’s thumping down the hallway, painting stuffed up under his arm. He shoves his free hand in his jacket pocket, fishes for the keys––

And then there’s a blinding flash of light sweeping in through the living room window, low rumble of an engine as a black mustang rolls up the driveway.

“Shit!” you hiss, swiveling your head around as you search for a quick escape––

“Closet!” Dean barks, closing a massive hand around your elbow and pulling you behind him.

The large painting thunks against the wall as the two of you shove yourselves into the narrow space. The closet door clicks shut just as the front door unlocks.

The man’s voice is muffled, with pauses in between; he’s on the phone.

“Fuck, what’re we gonna do?!” you whisper-yell.

“Shh! I’m thinking!”

The low voice isn’t fading, and there’s a sound like weight plopping into fabric, and you can just imagine the guy lounging on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.

“Yeah…we’re gonna be here a while,” Dean murmurs under his breath.

You sigh, pull out your phone, and thumb through your contacts until you get to Sam. You’re just starting to to type when Dean jerks the cell out of your hand—

“Hey!” you hiss, blindly grabbing behind you.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Dean whispers back.

“He could cause a distraction—”

“You want the cops called?”

You scrub a hand over your face. “So what do we do?”

“We wait.”

“That could be hours!”

“Nah…maybe an  _hour_ —”

“So we’re supposed to just stand here for an hour?!”

“Yup.”

A leather-clad arm snakes around your middle, thumb drawing circles along your ribs. “Or…maybe we could have a little fun?”

*Fifteen minutes later*

You’re up against the door, back rocking into the painted wood. Your jeans have been abandoned somewhere on the floor, bare legs locked at the small of his back, panties pulled to the side so Dean can fuck up into you. His own pants are shoved down just under his ass, belt removed to prevent any additional noise.

Your jaw hangs slack in silent ecstasy, arms slung around his shoulders, fingers scrunched into soft flannel as he repeatedly bottoms out with every lazy thrust.

His heavy fingers dent into the flesh of your thighs as he holds you trapped between muscle and wood.

“Harder…” You mean for the word to come out as a command, but he slips out more of a question as heady arousal scuttles through your veins.

“Harder?” Dean echoes, the breath of the word bouncing hot off your lips. “You want it harder?”

“Please.”

“You gonna be quiet?”

“Yes…”

He slows down a notch as he finds his position, swings his hips a little faster as he builds up the momentum.

You start to pant, then gasp when he starts to hit your spot––then you’re grunting––

A meaty palm clamps over your gaping mouth.

“What happened to quiet, huh?” he hisses, quickening his pace. You settle on moaning into his hand as thrusts harder and deeper, and god, you can just imagine this dude––maybe he’s still sprawled on his sofa, or maybe he’s bent over the fridge, scooping out a beer––totally oblivious to two strangers fucking away in his hall closet.

Your orgasm is short, but sweet, endorphins jellying your limbs. Dean follows soon after, hands you your crumpled panties to clean yourself with.

Being stuck in a closet isn’t as bad as it sounds.


End file.
